


something borrowed, something blue

by fizzingwhizbee



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng Fluff, Adrinette | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Identity Reveal, Living Together, Marriage of Convenience, Married Couple, Married Life, Master Fu is still around, Post-Canon, Students, University, adrien catches feelings, marinette already HAS feelings, marinette as a fashion major, meanwhile shit's going down!!, nino's off having a good time in italy, slightly canon divergent, slow burn kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzingwhizbee/pseuds/fizzingwhizbee
Summary: If it had been a normal proposal, I would have been giving her hints for weeks - asking about her ring size, that kind of thing. She would have had some warning.Instead, I’d been leaning against the sink in her bakery kitchen, my arms folded. “Here’s an option: marry me.”(Marinette and Adrien begin a 'mariage de convenance', so that she has money for her dream uni course, and he gets some peace from the media... eventually.)
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 30
Kudos: 178





	1. Adrien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome!  
> I wrote most of this fic in a fit of madness while on a family road trip, which means hopefully it won't take me long to post each chapter.  
> Anyway this first chapter is a bit of a short intro, but the next one should be longer. Hope you enjoy!

Marinette is staring at me.

To be fair, I had kind of sprung the idea on her. If it had been a normal proposal, I would have been giving her hints for weeks - asking about her ring size, that kind of thing. She would have had some warning.

Instead, I’d been leaning against the sink in her bakery kitchen, my arms folded. “Here’s an option: marry me.”

She blinks, slowly. “Did you just say - ”

“Yes.” I push off from the sink and come over to the table where she’s standing, her hands covered in flour. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and it's the best way for me to legally share money with you. What other options are there? If you didn't make the scholarship, and don’t have any rich dead relatives…”

“No rich dead relatives,” she says numbly, still staring at me. There’s a streak of flour just below her hairline, where she must have been rubbing her forehead with frustration.

She’s been so… down, lately. Like she’s given up. I’m determined to help, even if it’s by doing something as unconventional as this.

I sit down at the table and spread my hands in a show of peace, taking care not to bump the tray of cinnamon rolls. “Just - hear me out, okay?”

Marinette nods, the rolls and cinnamon glaze forgotten. “I’m listening.”

“You need money to get into the fashion course of your dreams - and as your friend, I refuse to stand by as you give that up. If we get married, we can share my trust fund. My father won’t be allowed to object if we're bound legally. And he's still in hiding, obviously." I tap my knuckles on the table. "It would only be for a few years, and then we can just get a quiet divorce when you’re ready to.”

She’s flushing, and still looks like she expects me to say I’m joking. “Adrien, I couldn’t let you do that. It’s… it would be unfair to you.”

I snort. “I wasn’t exactly planning to marry anyone else in the near future. Or date anyone, for that matter.” I’d tried a few times to meet someone new, after Ladybug and I took off our miraculouses for the last time. But it had never worked out. Ladybug was it, for me.

Sometimes you only fall in love once.

Marinette goes even redder, which I hadn’t realised was possible. “ _Adrien_. This is stupid! Think of how much the media would be after you!”

“They already are,” I say, trying to sound flippant. “Always trying to set me up with someone or other. I’d rather that Paris thinks I’m married to _you_ , compared to dating random models every other week.”

She manages to smile weakly at that, and then starts rolling out more dough for the rolls. She’s not looking at me, but I can tell she’s thinking about it. She’s biting her lip, hesitant.

“We can share an apartment,” I say, trying to convince her. “Near the campus. We probably would have done that anyway. It’ll just be two friends with a marriage certificate.”

“ _Two friends with a marriage certificate_ sounds like a B-grade rom-com,” Marinette mumbles.

I laugh. “Don’t worry. We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? This will just be one more thing we’ll be able to manage.”

She works more furiously at the dough, and I take that as my cue to leave. I stand up, picking up my jacket and snagging one of the freshly cooked macarons waiting to be brought out. “I’ll let you think about it.” I say. “Call Alya, will you? I’m sure she’ll agree with me.”

Marinette laughs quietly as I turn to go. “I’m sure she will,” she says.

* * *

It’s a week later when Marinette finally says yes. We’re walking together, past the old high school.

Graduation was months ago, marking the end of one of the weirdest senior years. That was the year everything happened - the final battle with Hawkmoth, saying goodbye to Ladybug... then exams, turning 18, my father leaving the country.

It seems stupid that after everything, he still has some control over me. He should, by all accounts, be in jail for his years as Paris’ worst super-villain. But, as always, he's managed to slip away - still holding my trust fund and most of my money until I'm 21. Or, until I get married.

“I have a feeling this is going to be a stupid decision,” Marinette says, breaking me out of my thoughts, “but I’ve decided to accept your proposal.”

She says it formally, like a business transaction. Which I suppose it sort of is.

“Oh, come on now,” I say, smiling at her. “Would being married to me really be so bad?”

She goes pink in the rosy sunset light. “No, of course not, but…”

“But?”

“Nothing.” She meets my eyes. “If you really are happy to spend money on me, then I’m very grateful, Adrien.”

Her gaze is suddenly too intense for me to hold. I take her hand, instead, and hold it up to the light. “It’s nothing. We’re best friends, aren’t we? I should have gotten a ring for you.”

She snatches her hand away. “Don’t be silly. This isn’t _that_ kind of marriage.”

“No,” I say, carefully, “but I think it should _look_ like it is. To some extent. Not that we’d be sharing bedrooms or anything - ” She winces. “ - but so that the media doesn’t get too suspicious, I think we should do things the right way. We don’t want any kind of _scandal_ for your first year at uni, do we?”

Marinette shakes her head. “I see what you mean. Let’s go get ice cream, or something - this is starting to feel kind of surreal.”

After the sun has set, and we’ve finished our ice creams, Marinette hugs me unexpectedly. Usually, she’s kind of shy about physical contact. It’s taken years for her not to twitch if I so much as hand her a pencil.

“Thank you, Adrien,” she murmurs into my ear. “I really mean it.”

I’m oddly touched. She smells like sugar and pastries, and a faint touch of floral perfume. Her hair brushes my cheek.

“Let’s go ring shopping tomorrow,” is all I say.

* * *

It’s a quiet wedding.

None of my relations are there - Marinette’s parents are sniffing into their handkerchiefs in the front row, and Alya smirks at us from the back.

I’m dressed in a dark suit, slightly too big for me - _we’re like children,_ I think, _playing at being grown-ups_ \- and Marinette’s in a white cotton dress, flowers in her hair.

I’m hoping it’ll be a while for the magazines to hear about this. I’m sure they will eventually, but the news that I’m no longer _‘on the market’_ should take a while to trickle out. I don’t want to Marinette to be all stressed out for her first year of university.

We say our vows quietly. I’m trying to grin at her, make it out to be a sort of joke, but she’s meeting my eyes with an odd solemnity.

When we kiss, it’s like two friends saying goodbye at an airport. Short, soft, a bit wistful.

There’s coffees and cake, after. Ayla recounts a convoluted story about Marinette and me first meeting - the misunderstanding about the gum on her chair, then me giving her an umbrella in the rain.

Marinette says very little. She stands next to me, an apparition in white, and doesn’t touch the food.

And of course, there’s no honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be soon :o


	2. Marinette

It’s been six weeks since the wedding, five since I got a conformation about my spot in the fashion course.

The last month has been like a disjointed, surreal dream - working at the bakery, buying textbooks, apartment hunting with Adrien. He’s been staying with Nino' parents place ever since he found out his dad was… well, a super-villain. He could have found somewhere to live independently since then, I’m sure (his father doesn't control _all_ his money), but he probably didn’t want to be alone.

I’m watching Adrien now, laughing as he and Alya struggle with one of my suitcases. Blond hair falling into his eyes, white shirt open at the collar… he always looks like a perfume ad, never discomposed. Never one hint about how betrayed he must have felt by his dad. _How does he do it?_ I’ve wondered about it more than once.

“Marinette?” Alya shoots me a look. “Give us a hand?”

“Ah - sorry.” I run over to help lift some of the bags, broken out of my thoughts.

I’d asked Alya to help us move our stuff into the new flat. She’d driven down forty-five minutes from her own dorm to help us (she’s in her second year of uni, studying journalism. I was the only one out of my friends who took a gap year last year - supposedly to help at the bakery and save up money for my fashion course, though that didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped).

I’m stupidly grateful that Alya’s here - not only have I missed her, but I also don’t think I could have handled setting up with Adrien alone. It would have felt too… intimate, somehow. 

It takes most of the afternoon to get everything dumped inside. It’s a small apartment, cosy, with big wide windows that look down over the street. There’s a big kitchen and lounge space, where we’ve managed to squeeze in a coffee table and my favourite red sofa from home. Adrien and I have two seperate rooms, although my room is the ‘guest’ room if anyone from the media asks. I’m sincerely hoping no one will ever inquire about our sleeping arrangements, though.

Anyway.

Hot and sweaty, the three of us are sitting at the new kitchen counter, sipping iced tea and eating Doritos.

“You know, Marinette,” Alya says approvingly, “you might _look_ like a skinny weed, but you’re surprisingly good at carrying heavy boxes.”

 _Ah, well, that’s because I’m an ex-superhero,_ I think. “Thanks Alya, you’re so kind.”

“I thought I’d have to get Nino to come,” she muses, “but he probably would have been useless.”

“Nino works out,” Adrien says, quick to defend his friend.

“Oh no, he’s definitely strong,” Alya says, smirking, “but he would have gone straight for the Doritos and left us to do the hard work.”

“How is Nino?” I ask. I haven’t seen him for months.

Her smirk turns more melancholy. “He’s ok. It’s hard, though. Him being so far away.”

Nino is finishing up a transfer year in Italy, where he’s been studying music and radio. I know Alya calls him almost every night, and is counting down the days until he gets back.

Adrien touches her arm. “Not long now,” he says, smiling. “Not long until we’ll all be together again.”

Something inside me calms at that, despite me having been anxious all afternoon. We’re all friends, friends who’ll stay together no matter what. Adrien and I are just two friends with a marriage certificate.

It’s really no big deal.

* * *

The first night we spend together at the apartment is a lot more relaxed than I'd imagined. Alya had to leave, so I made a simple pasta for just the two of us. We eat with the new cutlery set that my parents had gifted me at the wedding, and share a bottle of champagne.

“Well,” Adrien says, setting down his fork. “I told you this was a good plan.” The kitchen light paints gold glints in his hair. He’s flushed, glowing - even more than usual.

“You did,” I say, taking a sip of my glass. “And I thought you were being stupid.”

“I actually think it may have been one of my smartest ideas to date.”

“Whatever you say,” I mumble, and then - maybe due to the influence of the champagne - I add, “ _dear_ husband.”

He laughs, a proper, surprised chuckle, and taps his glass against mine. “Darling wife.”

It keeps hitting me that Adrien could have had anyone he wanted in Paris - almost any girl would marry him in a heartbeat (and some of the boys too, I was sure). And he’d chosen _me_. Not exactly for romantic reasons, of course… but I would take what I could get.

“You know,” he says musingly after a comfortable moment of quiet, “this feels like more our wedding night than the actual first night did.”

I drop my eyes, shifting in my seat. Our actual wedding night, I’d spent alone with my parents. I hadn’t seen Adrien again after the wedding until a day later. No honeymoon, nothing.

“So,” he says. “Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do on your wedding night?”

If Adrien wasn’t as charmingly innocent as I knew him to be, I would wonder if he was trying to make me uncomfortable. I mean, what was I supposed to say to that?

I stammer for a moment, before throwing out - “scrabble?”

He raises both eyebrows. “Your dream was to play _scrabble_ on your wedding night?”

It hadn’t been, exactly, but I’d associated the game with romance ever since I was little - my parents used to play it every Friday once the bakery shut. My mother had been trying to improve her French by expanding her vocabulary. I remember sitting on Papa’s lap, watching his big hands spell out ‘kettle’ in tiles, and the sparkle in my mother’s eyes.

“Yes,” I say, after a moment. “It’s weird, but yes.”

He smiles, one of those big, sunny smiles that’s been tugging at my heart for years. “Why not, then? I’m sure we saw the box when we unpacked one of your cases.”

So we find it, a dented old box, and play on the new coffee table while finishing off the last of the Doritos.

Adrien’s good, he’s always good at these kind of games. He has a funny quirk with the tiles where he has to line them up at ruler-point perfection. He pinches each square with long fingers until it’s exactly in place.

 _I’m allowed to notice these things now,_ I think. _We’re living together, technically married._ But it still feels like a strange sort of thrill, being able to look at him while his eyes are on the tiles.

After the game finishes (Adrien won, of course), my phone pings with a text from Alya as I’m setting up my room. _How is 1st night w hubby going?_

I huff something that’s half exasperation, half laughter. _Fine. We just played scrabble._

She replies with three smirking emojis, which would have made me blush if she was there.

_Literal scrabble, u know what I mean!!!_

She texts back; _whatever you say, girl ;) xx_

“Marinette?”

I yelp and almost chuck my phone out the window. Adrien looks bemused as he sticks his head through the bedroom door, which had been left ajar.

“Sorry if I’m… interrupting something?" he says. "Just wanted to check you were okay in here.”

“All fine!” I squeak. “A bit tired, actually. I think I’ll go to bed now.”

“Alright.” He gives me another beaming smile. “Sleep well, Marinette.”

“You too,” I manage to say weakly as he leaves.

As Ladybug, I used to dance with death on a regular basis. But now, all it takes is one _good night_ from Adrien to knock me out.

Sighing, I flop back on my bed and stare up at the apartment ceiling.

Our own apartment _._

Just what have I gotten myself into?

* * *

Summer trickles by, slowly. The days become steadily more grey and frosty, and the evening sky dulls from its August peach into a moodier September blue.

I’d spent the last month doing as much of my early reading for university as I could, curled up on the red couch in our new apartment. I’d started working in a cafe down the street, keeping my mornings busy - and finally earning some money that I wouldn’t have to get from Adrien.

On the weekends, I’d catch the train back to meet my parents, or have coffee with Alya. And sometimes in the evenings, Adrien and I would walk down to the local cinema to see a movie. He liked the arthouse stuff especially.

Adrien had been busier than I had - he’d consented to a spurt of summer modelling jobs and spent most days out getting photos taken. He’d come back in the afternoons rubbing foundation off his cheeks, looking tired.

“Why do modelling if you don’t even like it?” I’d had the boldness to ask, one afternoon about a week ago.

Adrien had managed to shrug elegantly while pulling on a hoodie. “I used to like it a lot, actually. And then in high school I went through a phase of resenting my father’s control over me, and I started to hate it. Now…” He sighed. “I don’t mind it. I’m used to it, I guess. And I like the clothes.”

I smiled at that. “The clothes must be the best part.”

“Definitely. I don't like advertising much else." He shakes his head. "That perfume ad I did was the worst - the stuff stank.”

I laughed at him - the boy who was always so polite, wrinkling his nose.

“I like the cameras,” he said after a while. “But what I think I’d really like to do is acting.” He was looking away as he said it, almost like he was embarrassed.

“Adrien, that’s really cool!” I wanted to make him look at me, to show my support. “I think you’d be really great in the movies, actually.”

“You think?” He _was_ embarrassed, but pleased… it was so touching that I wanted to go throw my arms around him. But resisted the impulse, as usual.

Now, we’re walking together towards the uni campus - Adrien chatty and calm, and me trying not to show how I’m internally freaking out.

This is it - this is what I got married for, this is the thing I’ve changed my life to be here for.

“What if it’s not what I thought it would be?” I ask suddenly, without really meaning to. I wince at how childish the words sound.

Adrien shrugs elegantly. “But what if it is?”

We split up on the wide front lawn, each walking to different buildings. I’m trying to follow the directions of the pixelated campus map on my phone, meanwhile Adrien seems to know exactly where he’s going.

Adrien's already in his second year studying business, a course which he calls _generally satisfying_ and that has way less contact hours than my fashion course will. This year he’s decided to fill up his electives with acting and drama classes, which something I know he’s really looking forward to. I try to assume that air of excitement as I walk into the art building, squaring my shoulders. _This is it. This is it!_

I’ve attempted to dress like a fashion major - pairing a white blouse, deep green cardigan and corduroy skirt. Adrien said that I looked a bit like an olive, but he said it in the nicest possible way (I _think_ , anyway). Perhaps it’s obvious I’m trying too hard…

But when I finally find the hall for my first lecture - only a few minutes late, that’s pretty good, for me - it becomes clear that I won’t be standing out today. Most students are dressed in smart casual attire, lots of white and black and a few blazers. No college hoodies here... not on the first day, anyway. And then there are a good portion of student dressing clearly to impress… floral dresses, ankle-length coats, sunglasses perched on heads, one girl sporting a chunky necklace of pearls.

 _These are going to be my people,_ I think.

The lecturers are definitely intimidating. Most of them are in form fitting suits, with heels that seem to clack as punctuation to their sentences. The presentations they give are awe-inspiring - photos upon photos of past student creations... outfit sketches for runway models, feathered coats and sequinned pants, shimmering cocktail dresses for a _Great Gatsby_ themed assignment.

A third-year student is invited in to give us newbies a pep-talk. She smiles at us in her dark turtleneck and hightop boots, her hair in spikes. “I remember how it feels to be sitting where you are,” she says, “but don’t worry. This course is hard work - dead hard. But you’re gonna _love it._ ”

For a second, I swear her eyes meet mine as she surveys the room and gives us all a little salute.

* * *

“Marinette! How was it?”

Adrien jogs over to meet me on the campus lawn, his backpack over one shoulder. His eyes are sparkling. “How do you feel?”

“I…” I’m tired out, but still fizzy and barely able to contain myself. Trying to seem chill, I say, “It’s really good so far… I think it’s too early to tell, though. The homework sounds like a lot - ”

“But how do you _feel_?” He’s grinning at me, like he already knows the answer to his question.

I beam back. “Amazing! The projects look _so good_ , and -” I start jumping up and down a bit, “ - the amount of _stuff_ in the design rooms, all the sewing machines and yards of fabric, I’m _so excited,_ honestly!”

I throw my arms around him, aware that I’m making a fool of myself but too happy to care. “Adrien - this means everything to me,” I say into his shoulder. _“Thank you.”_

Adrien leans back a bit to see my face. “I’m so happy for you,” he says earnestly, smelling of sunshine and cotton and some kind of spicy _boy_ smell (cologne? maybe?) and I’m on my tiptoes without thinking about it, leaning forward to -

 _No_. I jump backwards as quickly as I’d thrown myself into him, my cheeks burning. I’d been about to kiss him. Without even realising.

Betrayed by my own body.

Adrien still stands with his hands out slightly, looking confused. “Marinette? What's wrong?”

I stare at him with my mouth open, shaking slightly as I realise how close I’d come to disaster.

_Congratulations, Marinette. You were half a second away from ruining everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for the wildly varying chapter length! I have no concept of pacing :///  
> Anyways, thanks for reading and I will update soon.


	3. Adrien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you for the kudos and reviews - they honestly made my day!  
> I'm planning to update almost every day from now on, since everything's basically written and good to go ;)  
> Anyways enjoy this chapter of Adrien moping xxx

The media finds out eventually, just like I’d known they would.

It’s a gloomy Saturday, and I’m alone in the apartment. The news article is on my phone, and I consider sending it to Marinette for a brief moment - she’s with her parents for the weekend - before deciding she doesn’t need the stress right now.

_Spotted: Adrien Agreste, Paris’ golden-haired heartthrob, with secret girlfriend?_ reads the headline. 

So they don’t know about the marriage yet, apparently. A small blessing. 

There’s a few pixelated photos as I scroll down - one of Marinette and I leaving the university campus together, and one of us at the supermarket, my hand touching her back as she looks away from the camera. 

I throw my phone down onto the couch and drag a hand over my eyes. _Nothing to do but wait it out._

The beginnings of rain start to slide down the apartment window, thunder rumbles distantly. A bad omen, I suppose. 

I’d thought I’d be helping Marinette out by marrying her. But maybe I’m just making things worse. 

I pick up my phone again, bringing up her name in my texts, hovering my fingers over the keyboard… but what can I say? Nothing that will make this better.

_Who is this mysterious dark-haired woman who has stolen Adrien's heart? This remains unclear, dear readers, but our hardworking journalists are on the case…_

* * *

Our marriage hits the magazines on Tuesday, three days later. 

Marinette is home, surrounded by fashion catalogues and tracing paper in the living room. She looks up as I storm into the room, her tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration. “What’s wrong?”

I hold out my phone in answer, where the offending article proudly displays: _Hot topic: Adrien Agreste’s SECRET MARRIAGE._

Marinette takes the phone from me, looking startled. _“That’s right, readers,”_ she murmurs under her breath, eyes scanning the text, “ _Adrien Agreste, Paris’ long-time boy model, is no longer the eligible bachelor. Recent sources have confirmed that months ago, he had a quiet wedding with high-school sweetheart, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, -_ well _that’s_ not true, we were never going out in high school - _none other than the mysterious girl mentioned in our last issue._ Blah, blah…” 

She looks up at me, her face oddly composed. “Well, Adrien, we knew this would happen eventually - ”

“Read on,” I say grimly. “It gets worse.”

"' _I remember Dupain-Cheng in high school,' an anonymous fellow student informs us. ‘She’s always had a giant crush on Adrien. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. She used to chase him round like an excited puppy, always hoping to get her claws into him.’ It seems, readers, that Dupain-Cheng has indeed ‘gotten her claws’ into Adrien Agreste. A sad day for ladies everywhere in Paris!”_

Marinette puts my phone down, her jaw tightening. “Wonder who the anonymous student is,” she says, an obvious attempt at lightness. “Really mysterious.”

“Marinette - ”

She stands up, suddenly, and walks away over to the window. “Looks like I’m public enemy number one, then,” she says with her back to me. “That’s fine. Let them think I’m a gold-digger or whatever the hell they - ”

_“Marinette.”_ I follow her to the window, determined to make her look at me. “That’s exactly what we can’t let them think. We can’t risk your career later on. We’re going to need to act like we’re in love, like it’s a normal marriage, and bring you back into the positive light.”

She looks at me, through me. “Yes. I know.”

I reach out a hand to touch her shoulder, a silent apology, but she moves away. “I need to keep working. Let’s talk later.”

I can’t think of anything else to say, so I leave as well - I walk into my room, lie down on my bed and shut my eyes. 

Wondering if we've both made a big mistake.

* * *

Our first encounter with the press happens on our way to the grocery store. The rain has been gentle but persistent this week, and Marinette and I are sharing an umbrella as we walk up the hill. 

It reminds me of the story Alya told at our wedding; the rainy day when Marinette and I first met. For some reason though, I don’t share the memory with her. Maybe because it would sound awkward… bringing up our wedding again.

Marinette doesn’t look like she’d hear me, anyway. She’s unusually quiet, staring at the wet pavement ahead with detached eyes.

Things have been… not _cold,_ exactly, but there’s been a bit of distance between us since I showed her that article. Some kind of barrier that she’s put up and I can’t seem to cross, no matter times I try to make her smile or ask about her day. 

The street starts to get busier as we near the strip of shops, and then, out of nowhere, we’re accosted by sour-looking woman in a dark raincoat.  Pushing to block our way, she holds a microphone out to my face. A gangly-looking guy stands behind her, struggling to hold up a weighty camera in the rain. Recording us.

“I’m Anne Claire, from _Paris Sweetheart,”_ the woman introduces herself briskly. “Mind if I ask you a few questions today?”

I’m about to refuse and edge past, but - to my surprise - Marinette says, “I’ll be happy to answer them.”

The microphone swings from me to Marinette, the woman’s eyes narrowing. _Honing in on her prey,_ I think irritably. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she says.

Marinette nods, meeting the woman’s gaze. Her fingers brush my arm once, briefly, and then she stands tall on her own.

“Why did you keep your marriage to Adrien Agreste a secret?” the reporter shoots.

Marinette says cooly, “we wanted to keep out of the media as much as we could. Less stressful, that way.”

Unabashed, the woman asks, “how long was the engagement?”

“Not long at all,” Marinette says, which is true. “We’ve been together since high school, and we didn’t want to wait.” She lifts her hand slightly, flashing her ring not-so-subtly at the camera.

It’s a pretty plain ring, as they go - a slim band of silver. Neither of us had wanted a fuss, just like she’d said.

“I see.” The woman pauses, lining up her next question. “So there were no… _financial_ considerations that contributed to your engagement's fast time-frame?”

Marinette barely flinches. “No,” she says, quietly but firmly. “We’re in love. We wanted to be bound to one another.” And to complete the act, she takes my hand with her ringed finger. 

I feel flushed and stupid, still holding the umbrella. Usually I feel in control in front of the cameras - calmer than this. “That’s enough questions for today,” I say sharply. “Come on, Marinette.”

I pull her past the reporter, past the cameras, our hands still joined. She stumbles to keep up with me, but I don’t slow down until we’re at the supermarket entrance.

When I look back, Anne Claire and her camera have disappeared into the crowd.

“Adrien,” Marinette says, “let go of me.”

I drop her hand immediately. “Sorry.”

She folds her arms. “What’s wrong? Didn’t I just do exactly what you told me to?”

I fold in the umbrella, since it feels stupid to be holding it for this. “Yes, and you were good, but…”

“But what?”

“But you need to choose who you talk to more carefully, Marinette. I have more experience with stuff like this, and _Paris Sweetheart_ isn’t exactly the the most highbrow magazine there is - ”

She throws up her hands. “So what? Aren’t they all as bad as each other?”

“No, actually,” I run my hands through my hair, agitated, “some magazines are less likely to slander your name than others -we have to _think_ about this stuff, Marinette.”

“Oh, good point,” Marinette snaps, her eyes smouldering. “We have to _think_ about it. How intelligent. All we have to say is that we’re in love, right? Well, that’s done. I don’t want to be stuffing round with any more journalists.”

“If it helps their angle,” I say slowly, trying to stay calm, “ _Paris Sweetheart_ will twist any words you say to make you sound like the money-grabbing hag they want you to be.”

I’ve gone too far, I realise immediately. “ _Money-grabbing hag,_ ” Marinette spits. “That’s charming. You know what? I’m going home.”

She turns on her heel, walking back through the rain. Ignoring me as I call after her.

I stand outside the supermarket, steadily getting wetter, fuming. I’d been rude - obnoxious and rude, and I hated myself for it. I just didn’t understand _why._ Why the short interview had made me so uncomfortable. 

_We’re in love,_ Marinette had said - her soft, deliberate voice. _We wanted to be bound to one another._

I tilt my head up to the grey sky and try to push her words out of my mind. 

* * *

I do my best to make it up to Marinette over the next week. I say sorry, I make most of the dinners, I buy her a flower bouquet for her room. 

She apologises too, and I _think_ she’s forgiven me… not that we get to talk much, as Marinette’s first few major assessments are coming up.  She spends more and more time in the library after lectures, or in her room with the door shut, or at the kitchen counter with her laptop and a pot of tea or coffee. 

Fortunately, there hasn’t been another encounter with any journalists - perhaps because Marinette and I are spending so much time at home studying.  There’s a few articles published by _Paris Sweetheart_ and others, but they’re tamer than I expected. I don’t show Marinette. I expect she’s seen them anyway... her friend Alya _is_ studying to be journalist, after all. 

I arrive late at the apartment one evening, after dinner out with some of the people I do drama with. The light is still on in the living room when I tread quietly inside. 

Marinette is curled up asleep on the sofa, surrounded by catalogues and sketchbooks, her laptop by her feet and her earphones still in. She doesn’t stir. 

I dump my jacket and bag and walk softly over, picking up all her loose books as quietly as I can manage. I stack them in a neat pile on the coffee table with her computer. Then, holding my breath,I carefully pull her earphones from her ears and place them on the laptop. Her eyelids flutter and she rolls over a bit, but doesn’t wake. 

Relieved, I get one of the couch blankets to spread over her - but as I’m doing it, she mumbles something in her sleep that sounds like “ _mdrnng.”_

I freeze in the act of tucking the blanket over her. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her pale cheeks, and her hair, coming out of its pigtails, gleams blue-black in the lamplight. 

I realise suddenly how important Marinette has become to me over the last year - with Ladybug gone, and Nino overseas, she’s been my best friend. My closest person. I’m filled with a surge of fondness so strong that it surprises me. 

_“Mdrenn,”_ she says again. And then, sighing slightly, _“Adrien.”_

This time I really freeze. Her eyes are shut... does she know I’m here, or is it just a dream?

Marinette rolls over so her back is to me, and I can see the blanket move up and down slightly as she breathes.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. I’m so tired. But I’m buzzing, slightly, from the sound of my name. 

After a few moments of silence, I turn to go - trying not to creak the floorboards as I walk away. I turn out the lamp and feel my way to my bedroom. Wondering, as I go, what exactly I was doing in Marinette’s dreams. 


	4. Marinette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter - in which Marinette is asked out by the wrong boy, Nino returns, and Adrien reveals a certain secret.   
> So, enjoy!! :D

My very first assignment is hard work. I’m spending every free moment trying to design costumes for _A Midsummer Night’s dream,_ trying to show off as much as I can.  I’ve moved from mood-boards to sketches to sewing… at this point, I’m seeing lace and fairy wings in my dreams. 

It’s hard, but it’s _good._ After a year of part-time work and hanging around, I’m feeling super invigorated again. The world has switched to technicolour, just like in _The Wizard Of Oz._

I’ve made a friend, too, who I share most of my lectures with. Judy is short and petite like me, but she compensates by wearing combat boots with huge heels and chunky, pompom-ed beanies. She’s moved here only recently from Japan, and is super interested in traditional Japanese clothing. 

Through her, I’ve met Laura and Julian. Blonde and bubbly, with a Californian accent, Laura is like an American version of Rose from high school. Julian, who is a head taller than the rest of us, wears red every day and is obsessed with Alexander McQueen. 

The four of us hang out during breaks, and we get drinks most Fridays. It’s one of these Friday evenings - at a cramped little bar with purple booth seats and a moose head on the wall - when Julian surprises me by asking me out. 

Judy is buying drinks, and Laura is in the bathroom, so it’s just the two of us in the booth. He says, casually, “would you want to do this again sometime, just us?”

I blink at him in surprise. I tend to assume that I have very little attractiveness to guys - something that Alya always chastises me for. I have legitimate reasons to believe this, though. Not only am I prone to babble excessively when nervous, I’m also one of the least coordinated and clumsiest girls ever to work in a bakery. 

_That_ , at least, got a bit better after I started spending time as Ladybug. But still, my romantic interludes have been few and far between.

“Marinette?” Julian asks, after I continue to stare at him.

“Um, Julian - I thought you knew.” Cringing slightly, I lift up my hand to show him my wedding ring. “I’m… married.”

His mouth falls open. “ _What?_ How old are you?”

I clasp my hands together nervously. “Nineteen.”

“Shit, sorry. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known.” He stares at me. “A bit young, isn’t it? You must be _really_ in love with them.”

I’d thought that most people in my course knew I was married. Especially after the media got onto it. I’d told Judy, of course. And a student still comes up to me almost every second day to ask me what it’s like being married to Adrien - or, to get my autograph. There are whispers when I go down the hallway… all that kind of stuff. 

“You know Adrien Agreste, right?” I ask Julian. “We went to high school together.”

“You’re married to that _model?_ Gabriel _Agreste’s_ son?” His eyebrows shoot right up to his hairline.

I smile awkwardly. “Yes, actually. It’s kind of gossip-worthy, I know - I thought you would have heard.”

“Geez.” He stares at me a moment longer, and then shrugs. “Well, I won’t try to compete with a celebrity. Speaking of models, though…” he searches around in his bag before pulling out a few sketches. “What do you think of this design for my Puck character? I’m trying to go for a grunge kinda look…”

We spend the next quarter of an hour happily discussing the concept of an urban _Midsummer Night’s Dream,_ and I decide not to mention to anyone - especially Adrien - what Julian had asked me.

Unfortunately, I break my promise only a few hours later.

When I get home at about 10:30, Adrien is sitting on the couch with his computer propped on his knees. Nino’s face, a bit pixelated but still definitely recognisable, grins at me through the screen. “Hi, Marinette!”

Adrien turns round and smiles at me too. “Hey. We were just talking before Nino catches his flight tomorrow. He’s promising to have dinner with us this Sunday - crazy, right?”

“Yeah, actually, I should probably start on my packing,” Nino says as I sit down next to Adrien. “I need to get my recording stuff all wrapped up in bubblewrap… what a nightmare.”

“We can’t wait to see you, Nino,” I say warmly. The sight of his face, his signature red cap, and the band posters on the wall behind him give me a wave of nostalgia for our time in high school.

“I’ll bet,” he says, grinning. “ _Caio.”_

The call ends, and Adrien shuts the computer. “Can’t believe he’s been away for a year,” he says, shaking his head. “It feels longer than that, honestly.”

I hum in agreement, sinking back into the couch. “How was your day?”

“Good. How was yours?” He puts down his laptop and sits down on the other end of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest. “How are your friends going?”

“They’re good.” I stare down at my jeans and then blurt out, “Julian asked me out tonight.”

“What?” Adrien asks in surprise. 

I close my eyes. _Good job, Marinette - you and your big mouth._ “Um… Julian, you know, one of the guys in my course? He asked me out.”

Adrien stares at me. I can’t really tell what he’s thinking, which makes me even more nervous. “What did you say to him?” he asks finally. 

I pull my knees up on the couch, mirroring Adrien. “I said I was married.”

Adrien runs a hand through his hair, leaning his elbow on the back of the couch. “Look, Marinette…” he breaks off and sighs. “You can do whatever you like, obviously, but we _are_ kind of in the public eye. You’d have to be very… _discreet_ if you don’t want the media finding out.”

This whole conversation is making me uncomfortable. _Why oh why did I bring it up?_ “I already said that I turned him down,” I mumble.

“I know, but… do you like him?” Adrien asks. His face is still infuriatingly blank. 

Julian is great - I’ve barely gotten to know him but I still feel like we could talk for hours, about movies and fashion and everything. But I haven't had feelings for anyone except Adrien for years, now. 

Obviously, I can’t tell him this.  In fact, I can do the opposite - I can tell him that I’m in love with almost anyone else, anyone except him. 

I settle for the ambiguous move, shrugging my shoulders. “It doesn't matter, anyway. I’m not planning to date anyone for the next few years.”

Adrien watches me as I stand up to leave. His shirt is rumpled at the neck, and his eyes seem to glow green in the lamplight, like a cat. “Okay,” he says. “But if you change your mind… you can tell me.” 

I nod and try to smile reassuringly. “Sleep well, Adrien.” 

_I don’t think I’ll be changing my mind,_ I think grimly as I reach my bedroom. 

_Or my heart._

* * *

Nino and Alya show up on our door that Sunday night - Nino looking tanned and slightly dazed, Alya holding on tightly to his arm. 

There’s a minute of hugs in the doorway before he can even get inside. Adrien leads the tour around our small apartment, Nino whistling appreciatively. “Nice place,” he says. “I can see both your personalities in the _décor.”_

I’m about to ask what he means, but then I look around and see the place with new eyes: my fashion textbooks on the coffee table, Adrien’s berets and scarfs hanging up by the door, yards of fabric scattered on the kitchen table, and arthouse movie posters adorning the walls. 

Adrien, standing beside me, elbows me in the arm. “I think we've done a good job,” he says reflectively, looking around. “Alya helped set it up with us.”

“Yeah, and where were _you?”_ Alya throws her arm around Nino’s shoulders again. She keeps reaching to touch him, still probably amazed to see him in the flesh after so long. 

Nino sighs. “I wasn’t paying for an overpriced flight just to set up a couch or two, was I? No offence, guys.”

We laugh. “Wish you had come to our wedding, though,” Adrien says jokingly. 

Nino grins and looks at me. “I was super sad to have missed it. Proper congratulations are in order, I think!” He hugs me again and claps Adrien on the back. “How’s married life, then?”

Adrien meets my eyes over Nino’s shoulder. “It’s going well. How’s _Italy?”_

Nino answers that question over dinner. We sit around the table with takeaway pizza, in honour of his recent journey. “As you know,” he says, around a mouthful of _capricciosa,_ “I was supposed to come back at the end of last year. But the internship offer was too good to refuse. I was working on the radio all summer, it was the coolest. Couldn't understand half of it, but the music was good.”

Alya snorts. “You told me you were starting to speak Italian towards the end, you liar.”

“I didn’t say I could _speak_ it _\- ”_

“You kept saying stuff on the phone like _innamorato_ and _formaggio,_ every sentence! _”_

Adrien and I start choking on our pizza at that.

Later, we pull out the cake that Adrien and I spent all afternoon making - a passionfruit sponge with the words ‘welcome back, Nino!’ iced over the top. The word ‘Nino’ is squished down at the bottom because we ran out of room, but I still think it looks pretty good. 

Over dessert and wine, we start talking about high school and all its highlights.

“I can’t believe we’ve been dating so long,” Nino says fondly, putting his hand on Alya’s. “I reckon we outlasted ever other high school couple.”

Adrien snorts. “I don’t think you two had much competition, to be honest.”

“That’s not true, people were definitely dating,” Alya says. “I should know. As a budding journalist, I was keeping tabs on the school gossip.”

I laugh at that. “You’re such a busybody, Alya.”

“That’s a compliment,” she says, and winks at me. 

Adrien looks skeptical. “Surely people keep that kind of stuff private, though.”

Alya raises an eyebrow. “I know for a fact, Adrien, that you only went on a few dates the whole time. You had to keep turning people down, didn’t you? One or two girls in particular, both super annoying?”

My first nervous thought is that she means me, before I realise that Alya is talking about Chloe and Lila. I’d never _officially_ tried to ask Adrien out, thank goodness. That could have only gone badly. 

Adrien looks uncomfortable. “I wasn't that interested in… dating.”

“Oh, sure.” Alya leans forward in her chair, her _journalist_ posture. “Surely you liked _someone._ Not even one teensy, tiny crush?”

I wonder, as Alya rests her chin on her laced hands, if she’s perhaps asking this for me. Trying to find out for me if my love wasn't as pathetically unrequited as we’d both thought. 

Adrien flushes, slightly. “Well, there was _one_ girl _…_ no one from school, though.”

I’m stupidly disappointed, even though I’d known he wasn't talking about me. But Alya and Nino both look intrigued. It’s one of the first times Adrien has talked about his love life in front of us all. 

“Do we know her?” Alya asks.

Adrien laughs, for some reason. “Oh yes,” he says, “you definitely know her. All of you.”

“Tell us, bro,” Nino says. 

He smiles, abashed, golden hair over his eyes. “You’re all going to laugh at me.”

“I won’t laugh,” I promise, which is true. I’ll probably just be madly jealous instead. 

“Same,” Alya and Nino chorus. 

Adrien leans back in his chair and puts his hands over his face. “Fine. _Fine._ It’s… Ladybug.”

The table erupts. “ _Ladybug?”_ Alya shouts. Nino, breaking his promise, bursts into laughter. “How’d that work out for you, my friend?” 

I drop my cake fork, stunned.  Adrien liked - was maybe in _love_ with - _me._

_No,_ I tell myself firmly, _not with me, exactly._ Ladybug and I are very different, in almost every aspect. She’s confident, I’m shy. She’s athletic, I’m a clumsy mess. She’s a _superhero_ , and I’m… just ordinary. 

_This doesn't change anything,_ I tell myself, as Adrien sticks out his tongue at Nino, as Alya shrieks with laughter, as Nino slaps the table in disbelief. 

_This doesn't change anything._

Because I haven’t worn my miraculous in over a year and a half. 

Because these days, Ladybug is as good as dead.


	5. Adrien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for all your comments and kudos - it really means a lot to me!  
> Enjoy this new chapter (in which things start heating up....)!

It’s become a sort of unacknowledged tradition that Marinette and I go see a movie every Thursday evening. 

This week I dragged her to see _Marjorie sur la Lune_ \- this super French, arty film where the colour palette gets progressively duller as the story goes on. The last twenty minutes is in full black and white… it’s amazing. 

We’re having milkshakes afterwards, and I’m going on about the one scene where the main character cries soundlessly for five minutes. 

“I’m telling you, Marinette, I’m going to get that good someday. I’m going to start practicing tearing up in the mirror from now on - ”

She laughs at me with her milkshake straw in her mouth. “Sure you are. Anyway, more importantly, did you see the _dress_ she was wearing in that scene? The _beadwork_?”

A few people are staring at us from nearby tables, but I’m ignoring them as best I can. Over the last month, Marinette and I have both gotten a lot better at brushing off journalists and the like.  I’m hoping Marinette is right, that the buzz about our marriage _will_ eventually settle down. But, judging by the number of articles still ruminating about us and our mysterious relationship, that will take more time. 

To be honest, I underestimated Marinette’s abilities to deal with all the attention. I thought she’d be constantly embarrassed, but instead she’s often better than I am when talking with fans - she has conversations and takes photos photos with the nicer ones, and behaves with polite detachment to the ruder ones. 

_She’s really grown into her skin this year,_ I think. When Marinette blows up as a fashion designer or whatever she decides to be, she’s going to be amazing. 

“Why are you smiling?” Marinette asks, putting down her glass.

“You’re funny when you talk about costume composition,” I say. “ _Beadwork.”_

Marinette wrinkles her nose. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are glowing with excitement (from thinking about fashion, her greatest love). 

In her pink dress that she sewed herself, my corduroy jacket that she stole from the door hanger on the way out, and with dark sunglasses perched on her head… she looks really glamorous. 

Our conversation about dating springs into my mind, unbidden, as it often has over the past few weeks. Although Marinette hasn’t brought up Julian again, I keep wondering - _what if she really likes him?_

Marinette’s smart enough not to risk her career plans by doing anything that could be exposed as a scandal… I _think,_ anyway. And she agreed to this marriage willingly. But I still feel guilty, keeping her bound to me.

“What do you mean by _funny?”_ Marinette says, mock-offended. “Only yesterday I was trying to educate you on the cultural impact of the sixties silhouette, and you _laughed_ at me - ”

“I wasn’t laughing, I was smiling supportively!”

“Oh sure, that’s what you say _now_ …” she waves her sunglasses at me accusingly. 

I’m relieved when she’s like this, joking and laughing like we’re still friends and nothing has changed. It makes me hope that she _is_ happy, married to me for the foreseeable future, and not secretly regretting her choice.

The night after Nino came back, Marinette started acting more warmly toward me again. There's no divide between us, like when the journalists had first found out about our marriage, or when she’d brought up Julian one night. She seems way more comfortable, and I’m stupidly glad.

She was even teasing me about Ladybug, the other day. Asking me what it’s like being in love with a celebrity and whether I’d ever actually had a conversation with her.  I’d replied defensively that yes, we had had many conversations. Ladybug even knew my name, I’d said.

Then I’d spent the next few days wondering if I should tell her that I was Chat Noir. I couldn’t even imagine how I’d begin the conversation- _yes, actually, Ladybug and I used to talk a lot. In fact, I was her sidekick._ And, awkwardness aside, something else kept stopping me from going through with it. 

Because if Ladybug _herself_ doesn't even know who I am, then wouldn't it be wrong to tell Marinette? 

* * *

Winter approaches over the next few weeks, and the mornings dawn sparkling and frosty. I start bringing out my scarves, and Marinette swaps her dresses and skirts for jeans and raincoats. 

Exams creep up on us, like always. I’m not too worried - my hardest class is probably statistics, but it’s pretty manageable once I sit down with the textbook for a few hours. I’m spending most of my time learning lines for my drama elective, or for acting auditions. 

Marinette, meanwhile, is a different story. She’s determined to do as well as she possibly can in her classes, and she seems to be studying around the clock for her exams and practical assignments. The apartment soon fills up with fabric and sequins and tracing paper, while Marinette walks around in a haze reciting fashion history dates under her breath.

Her friend Judy comes over some afternoons, and they test each other against textbooks on the coffee table, steadily drinking up the coffee I make for them. Judy says ‘hey Mr. Celebrity’, almost every time she sees me, but lately it’s been a bit half-hearted. 

My exams week goes weirdly fast. I’m finished by Friday, and go out with friends to celebrate. Marinette refuses to come or even to take a break from studying. She still has her last assessments on Monday, and I have a feeling she won’t leave the apartment all weekend. 

It’s almost midnight by the time I get home, but I bring Marinette a coffee from one of the convenience stores - assuming (correctly) that she’ll still be up.

I find her sitting at the kitchen table, frowning at her computer while jazz plays softly on the little kitchen radio. 

“I got you something,” I say, holding out the coffee cup. 

She wraps her fingers round it and sighs. “Thanks, Adrien. I didn’t know if I’d be able to stay awake.”

“You’ve got the whole weekend,” I say. “Maybe you should get some sleep.” There’s dark half-moons under her eyes, and her hair is coming loose from the bun she’s hastily scraped it into. 

Marinette shakes her head, putting down the cup. “I can’t. There’s still a bunch of review questions I haven’t done, and…” Without warning, her eyes fill with tears.

_Crap_. I pull out a chair to sit next to her, taking her hands in mine. “It’s okay. Only a few more days and then it’s over.”

“Adrien, I _need_ to do well in this.” She looks at me as a tear slides down her cheek. Then she lets go of my hands to stand up, pacing around the kitchen, more agitated then I’ve ever seen her. “We’ve both sacrificed a lot for this course. You got _married_ to me, I’m using your money… I need this to work out, because otherwise - ” she’s wringing her hands, “otherwise I won’t know what else to do.”

I rise from my chair too, bumping my leg into the table in my haste. I can’t let her keep working herself up like this. “Listen,” I say, “you’re going to do really well. Judy told me you’re already one of the top students in the course. You’ve been revising for _weeks,_ seriously.”

“It’s not enough.” She leans against the kitchen counter, wiping furiously at her eyes. “I forget loads of stuff when I’m nervous - I’m sure I’ll show up on Monday and not remember the _first thing_ about designer business models - ”

“Hey, slow down for a second.” I come over to where she’s standing and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve still got time. And I have so much confidence in you, Marinette.”

Unexpectedly, she puts her arms around me. I can feel her body shaking slightly as she tries to stop crying.

I’m not sure what to do, really. I stand against the kitchen sink and rub her back and say, “it’s alright,” over and over. I’m trying to sound soothing, but my voice is cracking from tiredness and the stress of the last week. 

I’d known Marinette was stressed too, but I didn't realise how much. I didn’t realise that she felt so much pressure to make our marriage apparently ‘worthwhile’ by doing well in her course. _The amount of strain she must have been under…_

“I’m not sure if I’ve told you this,” I say, “but my father didn’t do that well at university. And look at him - before the whole Hawkmoth thing, obviously, he was super successful running his fashion house.”

She sniffs into my shoulder, and I decide to keep plowing ahead. “Honestly, Marinette, it doesn’t matter much how well you do in your first year. What matters is that you keep being motivated to follow your dream, just like anyone would tell you. You know that, right?”

She pulls her head away from my shirt and looks up at me, her face close to mine. “I know,” she says, and tries to smile. 

Her eyes are liquid, and such a familiar blue…

I lean forwards and kiss her without really stopping to think about it. 

Which, I realise later, is a mistake. But Marinette doesn't pull away.

She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat and her mouth just sort of… falls open, and then her hands come up to my hair. She winds her fingers through it, tugging slightly, and the surprise makes me stumble back against the sink. 

My head bumps against one of the top cabinets where we keep the glasses. It should hurt, but for some reason I can hardly feel it. From far away, the radio announces its next song on the _jazz classics_ queue. 

_You should stop,_ I think dimly. My thoughts feel as spacey as moths tapping on glass. _She’s stressed out about exams, and you’re both tired, and you’ll probably regret this._ But I’m too selfish to listen. 

I take my hands from her waist and touch her face, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. Marinette’s eyes have slid shut, I can feel her lashes brushing my fingers. Her hands come down from my hair and cup over mine, her fingers brushing over my wedding ring - 

And then suddenly I’m thinking about my _other_ ring, my miraculous. And in my mind, out of nowhere, it’s _Ladybug_ standing before me, Ladybug with her eyes shut as I cup her face…

I pull away from Marinette just as suddenly as I’d first leant forwards to kiss her. We stare at each other. Her lips are red and dark, standing out against the paleness of her face. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice sounds oddly hoarse. “I wasn’t thinking straight, I shouldn't have…”

She leans over to shut off the radio, and a deathly silence falls. “So… you’re saying it was a mistake,” Marinette says. She crosses her arms as though to close herself off from me.

“No, that’s not what I - ” I break off and take a breath. “Look, I shouldn't have done that when you were tired and already feeling stressed.”

Her eyes are unreadable, and still a bit red from when she’d been crying. I feel more and more like a jerk. _What had I been thinking? Especially when -_

“You’re still in love, aren't you?” Marinette says suddenly, staring at me. “With Ladybug. Unless it’s someone else?”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. But it must have been obvious in my expression that yes, it was Ladybug, because she says, “no use competing with a superhero, I guess.”

“Marinette, I - ”

“What do you know about her really?” she snaps. “Anything about her personality? Or is it just that she’s famous and can beat up bad guys?”

_I can’t tell her, I can’t. Not now._ “That’s not the reason,” I mumble. 

Marinette narrows her eyes. “Do you think her suit looks hot? Is that it? Honestly, Adrien - ”

“I can’t explain it to you,” I snap. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

We glare at each other. “Fine,” Marinette says finally, daggers in her eyes. “It _is_ none of my business. I’m going to bed.” She edges past me, picks up her computer and storms out of the room. 

Leaving me standing next to the sink, feeling more like a fool than I ever have in my life. 


	6. Marinette

The next morning I catch the train downtown to my parents’ bakery at the ungodly hour of 6am. I’ve left the apartment before Adrien even wakes up.

I help my parents set up shop for the day, and only give the vaguest of responses when they ask why I’m there so early. At 8am, I retire to my old bedroom - looking depressingly childish with its faded pink walls and mounds of old clothes - to start studying for Monday. 

I get about an hour of fashion history revision done before going to the bathroom to cry. 

Sitting on the edge of the closed toilet seat, hands on my lap, I stare at my wedding ring and try to blink back tears. I’d imagined that one day I’d finally get used to the idea of Adrien loving someone else. I’d even wondered if marrying him would help cool off my feelings… maybe living with him would make me realise that he’s just a normal boy, and then I could move on. 

But to get rejected by Adrien on account of my secret superhero alter-ego - it’s almost laughable, except for the fact that I’m crying.

I hold a hand over my mouth to try muffle the sounds, just in case there’s a lull in customers downstairs and my parents hear me. Then I have to go wash all the tears and snot off my fingers.  I splash water over my face in the mirror, and stare at my reflection until it starts to blur in the morning light. 

_I could tell him._ I could, theoretically, tell Adrien that I _am_ Ladybug… and in a dream world, he’d go down on his knees and pledge undying love. Master Fu told me explicitly that no one, ever, must _ever_ know about my secret identity - but if there’s anyone I would trust to keep my secret, it would be Adrien. 

But even if I disregard my solemn vow of confidentiality, there’s still the fact that… I’m not really Ladybug. And after a while, Adrien would probably realise I’m nothing like the superhero he thought himself in love with. 

And what _does_ he love about her? Apart from the fact that she can fight akumas, save the day and jump valiantly off buildings, I mean.

I wish _I_ could jump off a building. Right now. Not one tall enough to kill me, but just so that I’d get a concussion, maybe break a leg… spend a few weeks in hospital far away from Adrien. 

_Pull it together, Marinette._ I grip the bathroom sink until my knuckles go right. It’s better this way. Better to get the rejection over and done with. If I tell him about Ladybug, it’ll only prolong the agony.

_If he doesn't love me now,_ I think, staring my reflection in the eyes, _he won’t ever._

My mother knocks on the door a bit after lunch time, bringing in a tray of steaming tea and a croissant spread with raspberry jam. “How’s the study coming along?” she asks.

I look up from my books and try to smile convincingly. “I’m getting there,” I say, which is true - even though it’s taking me twice as long as usual to read through my notes. Every time I feel like I’m in the concentration zone, Adrien walks uninvited into my thoughts. Looking as stunning as always with his sun-kissed hair, chiseled jaw and blue knitted scarf...

My mother sets the tray down on the one clear spot on my desk. She brushes her hands over her apron and assesses me. “Anything you’d like to talk to me about, Marinette?”

Of course she knows. She can always tell when something's wrong. It's not just that I'm a bad actress - my mother honestly has a sixth sense for this kind of thing. “It’s okay,” I say. And then, thinking I should be more honest: ‘it’s not okay right now, but it will be. Once exams are over I’ll be fine.”

She comes over to hug me, smelling of jasmine and pastries. “Your father and I believe in you completely, Marinette,” she murmurs. Her words remind me of what Adrien had said last night... his encouragement, his arms around me.  _ I have so much confidence in you, Marinette. _

I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat.

“Thank you,” I force out. “And thanks for the tea.”

* * *

I spend the weekend at the bakery, studying until my eyes feel too raw to read properly. I consider calling Alya at least three times, but I just… _can’t_ talk about anything until after Monday. I just want assessments to be over, and then I’ll be able to think straight again. 

Adrien doesn't call. 

On Monday, I catch a train straight to the university instead of back to the apartment. I hand in my sewing techniques assessment, and do my last two exams. They go well - it turns out I really did overstudy for everything - but I end up scrambling to finish on time since I put so much depth into my answers.

“It’s done,” Judy says in the courtyard, once we file outside. “I could cry, honestly. Want to go get drinks?”

I’m dreading going back to the apartment, so I stay out as long as I can with Judy. We end up having dinner together at a cramped restaurant not far from the campus. She tells me amusing stories about life back in Japan and I try to laugh along and not look like a zombie.

When I get home, I quickly realise that I needn't have worried about Adrien. The apartment is completely empty. I go to bed early and I don’t hear him come in. Then o n Tuesday, I’m the one who gets up early to leave before he does. 

Logically, I know we can’t keep avoiding each other forever. It’s like a twisted game of hide-and-seek, except both of us are doing the hiding. 

The day is completely free - I’m on break with no classes, and no work. I meet Judy, Laura and Julian at one of the little parks near my apartment, and we sprawl out on the grass together. Julian has brought four tiny bottles of champagne, and Laura made brownies for the occasion. 

“Half a year down,” Julian says, raising his drink in a toast, “three and a half to go. If they don’t kill us before then.”

I do my absolute best to forget about everything except the fact that exams are over, my friends are here, and the winter sun is shining. 

Except I wish I could tell one friend - _just one_ \- about what happened. Even Judy, who knows almost everything about me by now, doesn't know the real reason why Adrien and I got married.  She thinks we’re in love. She’s half-right about that, though - I love _him_ , anyway. I wouldn't have been able to hide my massive crush on Adrien from Judy, even if I’d tried.

So... not Judy. And I'm too ashamed to call Alya. 

And I realise suddenly, the person I _really_ want to talk to... I have no idea how to contact. 

In some ways, I used to be able to confide more in Chat Noir than anyone - even Alya. He wasn't from my school (I assumed), he had no idea who any of my friends were, he would listen in support as I cried about Adrien (naming no names, obviously), or raged about Lila…

I miss him so much that it’s suddenly painful. I never got to thank him properly, for helping me start to believe in myself in those clumsy, shy years. And for the amount of times he saved my life. Even all those stupid puns…

_Wherever you are right now, Chat,_ I think as I stare up into the watery sunlight, _I hope you’re doing better than me._

* * *

Adrien is in the kitchen when I get home that evening. 

He looks around as I step inside, a soup ladle dangling from his hand. A pot is bubbling on the stove. 

“Hi,” I say nervously, dropping my jacket and bag. 

He smiles at me a bit hesitantly and waves the ladle. “I made dinner. I wasn't sure if you’d be here…”

“Thank you, Adrien.” I come over to set out the table, but he’s already done everything. Two bowls, two glasses, a little vase of flowers. 

I sit down quietly as he serves up, handing me a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. I look down at it and think of high school, afternoons in the bakery, doing homework with Alya in my old bedroom.  The lump in my throat returns, but I’m determined not to cry in front of him. Not again.

Adrien sits down opposite me. His hair is damp and curling from a shower and he's dressed more low-key than usual - a rather shapeless dark green jumper which makes his eyes look even more vivid. He also looks uncertain, an emotion that seems foreign for him. “I, um, wanted to say again that I’m really sorry for what happened on Friday. I felt super bad about it all weekend.”

“It’s okay,” I say, staring down at my soup instead of meeting his eyes. His stupid, electric green, _devil-may-take-you_ eyes. “I’m sorry too, for snapping at you.”

“I deserved it,” he replies. “It was - it was a really shitty thing to do, especially while you were stressed about exams - ”

I look up, only so that I can try to cut him off. “It’s okay,” I say again. “Really. I’ve had the weekend to get over it.”

He worries at his lip for a moment, and then nods. “Alright. I just wanted you to know that I still think of you as my best friend. I think it sends confusing signals that we’re - well, _married,_ and we were both really tired… it shouldn't mean anything.”

_He’s excusing me,_ I realise. _Trying to be generous and pretending that I didn't mean what I said._ Letting me know that he doesn't _really_ think I like him that way. 

I swallow thickly and decide to go along with it. “I agree. Can we just - pretend it didn't happen, maybe?”

Adrien nods and gives me his best comforting smile. “Alright,” he says. “It didn't happen.”

I start eating so that I have something to do. The soup is warming - not as spicy as when my mother makes it, but still good. 

“Also,” Adrien says, “I wanted to tell you. I quit modelling yesterday.”

“Seriously?” I put down my spoon and stare at him. “But I thought you liked it!”

He shrugs and, for some reason, avoids my eyes. “Lately the photographers have been asking about you almost every time I come in. Everyone wants to know all this personal stuff about our marriage, and whether we can do a joint photoshoot for them… I got sick of it.”

I’m oddly touched by this. “I would have done a joint photoshoot, though,” I say after a moment. “If you’d asked.”

He grins. “Of course you would. I don't think it would have been much fun, though. Anyway, I’ve had enough with that sort of publicity.”

I keep staring at him, and his smile is so infectious that I end up smiling back. “Congratulations then, I suppose.”

“Thanks.” He takes a mouthful of soup and then says, “I mean, my contract still runs up to Christmas, but that’s not too far away now. And I’m taking a week off this week, even if they hate it.”

I’m relieved that conversation now feels more normal between us, and I’m suddenly really hungry because of it. I pick up my spoon again and ask, “do you have plans for what you’ll do instead?”

“Well…” he looks sheepish again, “more news, actually. I found out on the weekend that I got a short acting role.”

“Adrien!” My mouth drops open. “Why didn't you tell me you were auditioning for stuff?”

“I was kind of embarrassed,” Adrien admits. He runs a hand through his hair, like he always does when he’s uncomfortable. “I wasn't sure if I’d be good enough. I should have told you, though.”

“You should have,” I say. “Is it for a film?”

“Yes.” His eyes are bright. “Only a short film, nothing too big. And it’s not even for one of the main characters. But… it’s a start.”

A week ago, I would have jumped up to hug him. Now, I stay seated, but I smile at him. A genuine smile. “Adrien, I’m really happy for you.”

He smiles back, nervous and excited, probably a bit relieved that I’m reacting well. “We’re okay, right?” he says.

“We’re okay,” I reply. Maybe not now, exactly… but I hope one day, we will be again. 

* * *

That Friday, I wake up in my bedroom from a nightmare. One of the usual ones.

The details start to fade as I sit up in bed, catching my breath, but I can still feel the burn of ropes around my wrists. One image seems to glow behind my eyelids - I'm tied back to back with Chat, my earrings ripped out, warm blood trickling down the side of my neck. 

I rub my face and wait for my heart rate to slow. I’m wide awake, no point trying to go back to bed.

Adrien’s door is firmly shut as I pad past it and into the main room. My sewing machine is still spread out on the kitchen table, my fabric laid out beside it.

There’s no classes for a while at the moment, since we have all this extra time I’ve been itching to start a project of my own. I’d had the idea of starting a collection based off the miraculous superheroes, because Ladybug has been on my mind a lot the past few weeks - and Chat Noir. 

Right now, I’m making denim jackets. They’re popular in Paris all year round, and this way people can pay tribute to their city heroes. 

I’ve more or less sewn together my test jacket. It’s black denim, with a satin polka-dot inside lining. I’m planning to hand-sew three red polka-dots in a line under the breast pocket. A subtle, yet recognisable tribute to Ladybug. 

_May as well be productive, since I’m awake._ I sit down at the table, switch on the little lamp, and start tracing out circles onto my red fabric with a white pencil. 

I have to push my drawings of Chat Noir’s jacket out of the way so I have room. He’s going to have black denim, too, with green thread. I’m still undecided about whether a paw print sewn on the pocket would look cute or tacky. 

_I could sell these,_ I think as I start cutting the shapes. If I make more, I could put them up online, maybe. Or bring them to one of the open days at the uni.  Due to Adrien, of course, a lot of people in Paris know my name now. It wouldn't be too hard to make use of the publicity… start my own label, maybe. 

_So, looks like you married Adrien for the money_ and _the_ _fame,_ a voice in my head says scornfully _._ That sounds bad. Actually, the truth is even worse - I’d married Adrien for money, fame, and an unrequited crush. 

As I finish cutting the circles, I try to justify the marriage to myself. I’d _borrowed_ Adrien’s money. I hadn't stolen it, it was _borrowed_. And if - _when_ \- I started working as a designer, I’d pay him back as soon as I could. 

And as far as my unrequited crush on him goes… that’s basically irrelevant.  Besides, I refuse to think about that right now.

I line up my red polka-dots and start to stitch them on, squinting a bit in the half light. The act of hand-sewing calms me almost immediately. Pinning in the circles, threading the needle, small and even stitches…. 

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting there before my eyelids start feeling heavy. Putting down the jacket and my needle, I rest my head on my arms for a moment - _only a moment, then I’ll keep working_ \- and somehow, unwillingly, doze off. 

I’m dreaming about Chat Noir again, but this time it’s a sunny day and Hawkmoth is nowhere to be seen. We’re sitting on a rooftop together, our legs dangling over the side, sharing a croissant between us. 

“I miss you,” I say to him, once the dream has taken clear shape. 

Bits of flaky pastry blow from his hands into the breeze. “It didn't have to be this way,” Chat says ruefully. 

“I know.” I look down at my red-suited legs. “But we both made promises.”

When I look up, he’s looking back at me. Chat reaches out to touch my cheek. “LB. _Ma chérie.”_

He says something else, too, but his words are lost in the sound of creaking floorboards somewhere nearby. 

I jerk awake. I'm still at the kitchen table, with my head resting on my arms.

Footsteps sound on the floorboards again. Looking up blearily, I see his silhouette emerge from the hallway - tall and lanky, a glint of gold in his hair. 

My mind is still full of the dream, and for a split second I’m sure that he’s finally found me.

“Chat?” I whisper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, thanks for your comments and kudos! Hope you enjoyed this (rather long) chapter, and I'll update soon! Only two more chapters to go :O


	7. Adrien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back for second last chapter!  
> I forgot to say earlier, but this story is slightly canon divergent - basically, the season 3 finale never happened and Master Fu is still the guardian. That's how identities never got revealed after the final battle (and therefore the angst could continue for a few more years...)  
> So, hopefully that will make more sense in this chapter :) enjoy!

I haven’t been sleeping well since Marinette and I fought last week. 

I keep dreaming about Ladybug _(...no surprises there)_. She’s talking to me, but I can’t hear anything she’s saying. Her eyes are so earnest, her lips move silently... the same stupid dream, over and over. 

When I wake up after another one of these fragmented dreams, I’m so hot with frustration that I can’t sleep again.

I’d planned to go to the kitchen for some milk (yes, fine, as Chat Noir I developed a taste for milk in a bowl - what about it? Calcium is good for your bones) but I hadn't realised Marinette would be up, too.

The morning after we'd fought, I’d gone to Nino’s house after waking up to find Marinette already gone. “What’s wrong?” Nino had asked, when I’d arrived looking hallowed on his doorstep. “I kissed Marinette,” I’d said. “Oh, shit,” he’d replied. 

I’d stayed there until late Monday night, and then decided to face up to my mistakes. Except that Marinette was gone again, the next morning. 

We’d sort of made up over dinner that day. The rest of this week has been awkward, but not terrible. She still talks to me, but she’s not nearly as relaxed as she was before. No more teasing me about Ladybug, no lectures about the history of street fashion. 

I miss her, even though she’s right here living with me. 

When I step into the kitchen, I find Marinette passed out on the table. Right on top of the jacket she’d been sewing. She wakes up when I stand on the wrong floorboard, blinking at me in the half-light. 

“Chat?” she says, so softly that I wonder if I’ve imagined it. 

I stare at her -her hair lose and messy, her faded pink sleep-shirt. “What did you call me?”

Marinette starts a little at my voice, and then she’s properly awake. “Adrien. I was just dreaming…”

I step further into the room, prickles rising on the back of my neck. “Chat. You called me _Chat.”_

_Does she... know?_

Marinette stands up, rubbing at her face with one hand. “I was half awake. For a second when you came in, you looked a bit like - ”

“Chat Noir.” I say. The room seems blurry and distorted - I wonder if this is just another dream I’m having. Maybe it’s a nightmare. 

She looks at me oddly. “What’s wrong?”

I’m not exactly sure. Of course Chat Noir and I look similar - anyone in Paris could mistake me for him if it’s dark enough. It’s not too unexpected that she called me _Chat_ , it’s just… her voice.

The way she says my name, as though she knows me. 

“I haven't told you this,” Marinette says, “but I was pretty good friends with him.”

I stare at her. Sure, we’d had conversations a few times when I was Chat Noir, but it was a bit of a stretch to call us _friends._ “You were?”

“Yeah.” She hugs her arms around herself. “We talked a lot, actually. I… really miss him.”

I don’t understand. It seems like such a strange thing for Marinette to lie about.

Unless - she’s not lying. 

I keep staring, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears. She’s standing up straight, Ladybug’s height - the shape of her face, her eyes… 

“Oh, God.” I say. And then, “oh my God. How did I not know?”

“Adrien.” Marinette looks distinctly unnerved. “What’s wrong?” she asks again. 

I tug on my hair with both hands. “You’re Ladybug.”

* * *

_\---Two Years Earlier---_

_After the final battle with Hawkmoth, after the streets fill up with people trying to get a glimpse of the dishonoured Gabriel Agreste… Ladybug and I get away to a quiet laneway, somewhere we won’t be cheered at and surrounded and separated by the crowd. _

_ I’m still trying to catch my breath as we lean against the uneven brick wall, my mind absolutely blank.  _

_ “Chat,” Ladybug says hoarsely. “It’s done. We  did it.” _

My dad. My dad, this whole time. And I can’t even tell her. _ “About time,” I manage to say. _

_ She throws her arms around me, and I can feel her body shaking. Everything is strangely bright.  _

_ A car screeches past the lane entrance, and Ladybug pulls away. She touches my right shoulder._ _ “How's your arm?” _

_ “Good as new, thanks to your miraculous,” I say. But I can't forget the sickening snap my elbow made when I'd been thrown onto the ground by my father. The pain's gone, but the memory of it still makes me nauseous._

_ She looks up at me, her hand still on my arm. Her eyes are huge, blue, the colour of the sky. “What do we do now?” she whispers.  _

_ “We could de-transform.” I say quietly. I want to see her properly, before this is over.  _

_ I know she’s thinking about it. I know we’ve both been thinking about it as soon as the battle was done. Queen Bee had disappeared almost immediately to go get her picture taken, and Carapace had been holding a barely conscious Rena Rouge.  _

_ “Get out of here before the crowd swarms us,” he’d said. “We can regroup later.” _ _ I’d assumed he’d meant regroup at Master Fu’s, but we didn't know when the rest would be able to get away to show up. _

_ Now, Ladybug’s eyes fill with tears, and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. _

_ “I don’t think we can, Chat,” she whispers. _

_ “Why not? It’s over, isn't it?” _

_ Ladybug wipes a hand under her eyes, and steps away from me. “Master Fu would say that it’s never over.” _

_ “Oh  _ come on _ \- ” _

_ “We promised never to tell,” she says, her voice becoming more firm. “All of us did. Terrible things have happened to the past heroes when they shared their identities.” _

_ I open my mouth, but her yo-yo bleeps before I can speak. She slides it open, her eyes flicking over some sort of message.  _ “ Well done to you all. Everyone must return to me separately to hand back their miraculouses. Ladybug, I trust you to arrange this.”

 _ “That’s  _ it? ” _ I splutter as Ladybug looks up. “That’s all Master Fu has to say? No _'thank you for risking your lives time and time again,' _etc. etc.?” _

_ She bites her lip, looking at me in that sad way that makes me even more angry. “Chat…” _

_ I fold my arms. “Whatever. You should text the others.” _

_ She walks a few feet further down the alley, her back to me as she presumably contacts their phones through her yo-yo.  _

_ I’d thought a lot about how this day would go, but I’d never expected an ending so…  _ abrupt _. _

_ Ladybug turns around after a moment. Her eyes are still wet, but her stance is firm. “I’m going to go first,” she says quietly. “Wait twenty minutes, then go to Master Fu’s house. Don’t take too long, or Queen Bee will see you when she arrives.” _

_ “So... this is goodbye.” I stare at her.  How can she look so calm?  _

_ She comes up to me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “It might not be goodbye forever.” _

_ “You don't know that.”  _

_ She tilts her head to the side, keeping my eyes locked on her own. “Thank you,” she says softly, “for being the best partner I could have asked for. And for saving my life so many times.” _

_ I try, perhaps for the last time, to summon a Chat Noir smile. “You too, LB.” _

_ Ladybug smiles back at me, then goes up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek. Her hair brushes my face. “Goodbye, Chat.” _

_ I consider kissing her back, consider holding her shoulders and trying to memorise the planes of her face, her eyes… but there’s no time. “Goodbye, my lady.” _

_ She steps away, holds out her knuckles in a fist bump salute, and then throws her yoyo. Up onto the roof in one swing, gone in two. _

_ I touch my cheek where she kissed it and wonder if I’ll ever see her again.  _

* * *

_\---Present Day---_

Marinette’s mouth drops open as she stares at me. “I - how did you know?”

_ Ladybug.  _ I’d thought she might deny it, and for a second, I’d wanted her to. I don't want to admit to myself exactly how blind I’ve been. 

I start pacing up and down the kitchen floorboards, hands still in my hair. “I can’t _believe_ this. What are the odds - I mean, what are the odds out of everyone in Paris - ”

“Adrien - ”

“All those times we were late to school at the same time - and your _voice,_ how did I not recognise your _voice - ”_

“Adrien, please - ”

I spin to face her. “I don't know how we both could have missed it…”

I can see in it in Marinette’s face - she’s figuring it out. She doesn't want to, but my words are adding up and she’s staring at me, lost for words. 

“So I guess you were right,” I say, breathing heavily. “It wasn't goodbye forever.”

Marinette puts her hands over her mouth. And then - even though I barely register her moving - she’s in front of me, hugging me with Ladybug’s strength, her hands clutched onto the back of my shirt. 

“We’re both so - _stupid.”_ Her words are half muffled against my shoulder. "Chat..."

My eyes are shut. I lean my face into her hair… Ladybug’s hair. The same blue-black sheen, the same hairstyle right through high school - pigtails with red hairbands…

We end up kneeling on the kitchen floorboards together. Marinette lifts her head from my shoulder, and her eyes are wet. I cup her face, rubbing her tears away with my thumbs. She starts laughing a bit, and grabs my wrists, and her wedding ring flashes in the dim lighting - but, unlike last time, that doesn't make me pull away. 

“Your hair was always messier when you were Chat Noir,” she says, reaching up to run her fingers through it.

“All the roof-jumping made it look windswept,” I say.

Marinette snorts and then leans her forehead to mine. “I’ve missed you so much, you know.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I say, remembering how she'd heard me confess my crush. “As you know.”

She smiles, and I remember a different day two years ago - the bright sky, her lips on my cheek, tears in her eyes. “Yeah… I do.” Marinette says, then she leans forward to kiss me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter coming soon!! Probably will be full of fluff and y'all will have to deal with it <3


	8. Marinette

We end up lying on the couch together, sharing a blanket, my head on Adrien’s shoulder.

It’s probably been hours, but we keep talking - both of us keep remembering things that finally make sense.  Like the times we both had excuses about where we were, or the days where I was a nervous wreck and Adrien had dark circles under his eyes, and all the conversations we’ve had as Ladybug and Chat Noir.

“Hawkmoth was your _dad._ ” I whisper. “Adrien, I’m so sorry. You couldn't even tell me.”

He shrugs, moving my head up and down with his shoulder. “It’s alright. By that point, we were barely talking at all. Now, at least, I understand him better.”

I reach for his hand and grasp it tightly. “I shouldn't have left you so quickly after the battle. I’m sorry.”

I can feel him smiling. “You did what you had to do, LB.”

_LB_. I’d never imagined that someone would call me that again. A warm feeling spreads through my cheeks and stomach. 

“Also,” Adrien says, “I _do_ think your suit looked hot.”

I shift to look up at him. “What?”

“When you were going off about me about not having any reason to like Ladybug last week… it felt like a really bad time to say that yes, I did actually think that your suit looked - ”

I kiss him before he can finish - with a bit more force than I intended, obviously, because he falls backward on the couch, pulling me with him so that I’m lying on top of him. 

Propped up on my elbows, with his hands on my hips, I kiss Adrien until I run out of air. He looks up at me, grinning, tracing lines on my waist with his thumbs. “You know, your eyes are really the _exact_ same shade of blue… seems really obvious now I’m looking at them - ”

“Your miraculous gives you cat pupils when you’re Chat Noir,” I say. “So, I have more of an excuse for not recognising you than you do.”

“Well, you act differently.”

“So do _you!”_ I shake my head at him. “I’ve never heard you made _one_ pun as Adrien Agreste - ”

“That’s not true - I just said all my puns to Nino. He was a more appreciative audience than you and Alya.”

I laugh. “Fair, I suppose.”

He lifts himself up a bit to brush my lips with his, and then slumps back down into the couch. “Oh wow, that was so much effort - ”

“What,” I say, kissing his jawline, “Chat Noir can’t do one single sit-up?”

“Of course - I - ” Adrien gets out, suddenly distracted as I start kissing a line down his neck. “ _Marinette._ That’s unfair.”

“You mean _this?”_ I undo the top button of his shirt and press my lips to the skin there. 

“Yes, that,” he says as I undo another. He lets me get right down to his stomach and then puts his hands on my wrists. “Hang on, I’ll make it easier for you.”

I move back to let Adrien sit up, his shirt hanging open. He shrugs it off and smiles at me in all his bare-chested glory.

I can’t believe we’re finally doing this, after years of me dreaming about it (well, not about _this_ exactly - fourteen year old me wasn't emotionally mature enough to imagine taking off Adrien’s clothes…). 

I duck my head, a bit embarrassed. “I’ve liked you for a really long time, you know.”

“I don’t, actually.” His fingers brush my hair. “Tell me more.”

“Ever since you shared your umbrella with me on your first day of school…”

Adrien laughs. “You mean the story Alya told at our wedding? That was it?”

“I’d told her all about it. Many times.” I can feel myself starting to blush.

Adrien tilts up my chin so I’m looking at him again. “I should have realised earlier,” he says softly, “how important you were to me. Unfortunately, I thought I was in love with someone else…”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “it was the same with me.”

He cups my face and kisses me, slower than before. I run my hands down his bare back - I can feel his shoulder blades moving, his heart beating.  Adrien arches his back a bit when my fingers brush along his spine, breaking off to say “should we, um, go to my bedroom instead?”

My heart thumps almost painfully in my chest. “Alright,” I whisper.

We both look out into the gloomy hallway, not really wanting to move. 

“I could carry you,” Adrien says, swinging his legs off the couch.

“I could carry _you.”_ I retort.

He grins, a flash of teeth. “I know you could.”

We end up walking together, his arm around my waist, laughing slightly at the strangeness of it all.

“Let’s not go too far, though,” Adrien says hesitantly, once I climb into his bed. His blanket is still rumpled from where he kicked it off to get up. The sheets smell like him.

“Okay,” I say, leaning into him. “Tonight has already been crazy enough.”

“We’ll have time,” he says, leaning forward and kissing under my jaw. “So much time.”

I lie down and he lies with me, rolling onto his stomach, our legs tangling.

I put one hand on the back of his neck, my fingers brushing the part where his hair curls at the nape. It feels like I’m dreaming.  I smile up at the ceiling of Adrien’s bedroom as he kisses down my neck, and thank whatever lucky stars helped me to find my partner again. 

* * *

“You know,” Adrien says sleepily the next morning, “I used to wonder if I’d ever walked past Ladybug on the street or something without knowing. I never thought I’d end up _married_ to her.”

The morning light is streaming in, but it’s an effort to keep my eyes open. I only slept for a few hours last night - not that I’m complaining.

It’s surreal being in Adrien’s room. The vintage movie posters on his wall, the jackets and scarves hanging up, the fencing trophies shoved on top of his cupboard…

“Maybe it’s not such a coincidence,” I say with my head on his chest. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

“I do a bit,” he says thoughtfully, shifting his arm so that he can play with my hair. “I always thought my parents seemed like they were made for each other.”

“But…” I prompt, once he goes quiet. 

Adrien sighs. “But I don't really believe that certain people are _fated_ to meet. I think the hard work is up to us.”

“So… we’re just lucky?” I ask.

“Yeah.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ve always been lucky, LB.”

I lift up my head to look at him, propping myself up with my elbows. Adrien’s looking back at me with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair uncharacteristically messy, and his eyes catching the morning light. 

“You’re really beautiful,” I say, feeling almost like I’m drunk. “Did I already say that?”

He grins and reaches out to touch my cheek. “I’m happy for you to say it again.”

Then I notice the clock on his bedside table - 9 am. “Crap.” I rub my eyes. “I was supposed to be at my parent’s bakery this morning.”

Adrien turns his head to look at the clock too. “I have a film meeting in an hour,” he says. “Oh well.”

“Pity we can’t stay here forever,” I say. 

His smile drops. Looking suddenly nervous, he says, “Marinette - I want you to know that, uh, if you still did want to get a divorce - ”

“What?” I stare at him. “Why would I do that?”

Adrien lowers his eyes. “It’s just… we did this the complete wrong way round. And I feel like you never got much time to figure out what you wanted, or be independent for a while - ”

“ _Adrien_.” I cut him off, willing him to meet my eyes again. “Don’t be stupid. I love you.”

He looks vastly relieved. “I love you too, Marinette.”

“Those,” I say, grinning, “are the words I’ve been waiting for since I was fourteen.”

Adrien laughs, sitting up and reaching for my hand. His hair falls over his eyes as he touches my wedding ring. “Okay,” he says softly. “I just needed to be sure that you still wanted this.”

I smile, lacing my fingers with his. _No doubts here._ “Yep. I know what I want.”

* * *

_ \--- Epilogue --- _

My second semester of university looks a little different to the first. 

I’m busy creating my new _Heroes of Paris_ clothing line, which I’m hoping to publicise at the end of first year. Adrien, too, is more busy - he’s fitting in his uni work around the filming schedule of his first movie. When he’s not out on set, he’s practicing lines at home… but we manage to find time for ourselves, too. 

For one thing, we bought memberships at the same gym. I tend to work out better when I’m alongside my old partner. It’s almost like we’re training for missions again or something, running on treadmills next to each other or lifting weights. 

And we'd also both decided that since we know each other’s identities now, the rest of the miraculous team deserve to know as well.  Alya, Nino and Chloé - _that_ was a strange dinner, to say the least. After everyone had gotten over their initial shock that we had known each other in our civilian lives as well as in our superhero team, Nino said that he was glad it had turned out this way. "We haven't lost each other after all," Alya had said, raising her glass in a toast. Chloé had huffed, but I liked to think it had less malice than usual. 

We now have an _ex-miraculous wielders_ group-chat and I'm making everyone their own superhero-inspired denim jacket for late Christmas presents. 

And another small change: I’ve moved out of my room -which we used to call the ‘guest room’ whenever we had visitors who didn't know the true circumstances of our marriage - and into Adrien’s. 

He had the bigger bed, so that’s how it worked out. Now he has to put up with an extra wardrobe filled with my fabrics and half-constructed clothing items…but, so far, he hasn't complained. 

I hadn't realised how much I'd been held back over the last two years, missing my miraculous and without some kind of closure. Nowadays, my nightmares are less frequent, and I’m starting to feel like I can move on. Maybe not as a superhero anymore, but that’s alright. These days I'm starting to feel more comfortable in my own skin anyway.

And, me and Adrien still make a really good team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done!   
> Thank you so much if you've read this to the end, I super hope it was an enjoyable read.  
> Also please let me know in the comments what you thought :)))))  
> Lots of love <3


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